


you are my sunshine

by ohnonnie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 21:13:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15916362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohnonnie/pseuds/ohnonnie
Summary: Hawke lives for these moments. No cities to save, no fights to break up, no sound but the birdsong and Merrill’s contented sigh.





	you are my sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> written for the femslash language of flowers prompt 'marigolds,' which apparently symbolises the beauty & warmth of sunrise.

Hawke doesn't expect anyone to be up when she emerged from her tent, but it doesn't surprise her when she finds Merrill, perched on the edge of their cart and swinging her legs.

Hawke isn't used to travelling and isn't used to being out of the city. Reminds her of when she was last in Ferelden, feet aching and covered in ash. They didn't have a cart or tents then. Didn't have anything but their weapons and the clothes on their backs and each other.

She's glad she has the chance to make some better memories. 

Shame it has to be on their way to Sundermount to confront Merrill's clan yet another time. But they're not quite there yet and any tension she had faded under her joy of being barefoot on green land again, making daisy chains to give everyone and listening to Varric's many bullshit stories. 

Merrill adores travel, adores being in the woods and adores sharing it with Hawke, showing her what wood is best for a fire and pointing out all the flowers and herbs. Reminds her of good times, easy times, of home and her clan back when she didn't disappoint them.

Merrill gets up early with ease, part of her routine, and Hawke barely sleeps so she's usually up then anyway.

(“Let Blondie make you a sleeping draught, Hawke,” Varric nags at her regularly, mother hen that he is. “You look like shit.”

“Sweet talker,” Hawke usually responses and then a mild, “I’m fine.”

And she is. Not sleeping is better than sleeping and then waking up unable to shake the image of everyone she loves dead, thanks. She doesn't tell Varric that, though. He frets enough as it is.)

“Hey, lovely,” she greets softly and kisses her cheek as she turns to face her.

“Hawke!” Merrill replies, always so excited to see her. The way Merrill says her name, gentle and loving and awed, makes her heart swell. “I made you coffee.”

Maker bless the benefits of being friends with smugglers. She accepts the flask gratefully and enjoys the warmth against her palms, breathing the strong scent of it in.

There's a moment of peace, the chill of morning air and the smell of coffee and Merrill’s shoulder against hers. Hawke lives for these moments. No cities to save, no fights to break up, no sound but the birdsong and Merrill’s contented sigh.

“Oh,” Merrill’s soft voice cuts through the silence, but doesn't break. Part of the peace that surrounds them. “Hawke, look.”

Hawke looks up from her coffee, to Merrill’s smiling, delighted face, to her outstretched arm, to where she pointing. The sun, rising up and chasing the darkness away. Hawke basks in the sunbeams warming her numb cheeks and watched as it streaks the sky with gold and peach.

“Pretty,” Merrill sighs and then, grinning like she's learnt from Isabela, “Almost as pretty as you.”

“Oh,” Hawke breath out, swooning against Merrill dramatically and letting herself fall onto her, head in her lap. “Miss Merrill, the things you say! My heart!”

Merrill giggles, peering down at her and brushing away a strand of hair from her eyes. “You’re so silly, ma vhenan.”

“Silly and prettier than a sunrise, yes?” she responses, grinning wide and fluttering her eyelashes.

“Oh, you. I try to flirt with you but somehow I'm the one who ends up blushing!” Merrill chides, but the effect is somewhat ruining by her face-splitting smile and her hands pressed against her burning cheeks.

Looking up at her, lit up by sunlight and flushed a pretty pink, Hawke sighs happily. “I really don't know how I got so lucky.”

Merrill laughs. “I’m the lucky one,” she argues, but without any determination; they've had this argument too many times to count, always culminating in one of them using kisses to cheat and get the last word.

“Maybe,” Hawke muses idly, “we’re both the lucky ones. World’s a big ol’ mess but we still managed to find each other in it, yeah?”

“Yes,” Merrill agrees, full of warm affection. “Yes, we did, didn't we?”


End file.
